Today
by RedGrayBall
Summary: Castle decides to tell Beckett he's been pursuing her mother's case, knowing it will be the end of his hopes for a relationship with her. In the brief time before she arrives, he commits his thoughts to paper.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's note: Hello again. It's been a little while. I was lying awake the other night, introspecting about how a writer is a creature who constructs narratives about everything, very much including real life. Possibilities, scenarios, potential outcomes. It can be crippling, in fact.**_

_**It occurred **_**_to me, in the way that things do when your mind is neither entirely awake nor asleep, that Castle would have foreseen so many possibilities for how Beckett would react when she found out about his secret. I think he would have written it down, in some form, just to get it out._**

**_In this particular pocket universe, he does that very thing. I think this story will consist of three relatively brief chapters, then I really must disappear again... for a while._**

* * *

Castle leaned back in his chair, looking slowly around his silent office. It was early afternoon on a Saturday, and grey light filtered in through the blinds. His gaze came to rest on the darkened flatscreen monitor hanging from a wall bracket nearby, and he sighed.

After a moment, he turned his attention to his desk. His laptop was closed and pushed to one side, and there were only two objects directly in front of him: a large, lined notebook bound in black leather, and an elegant, midnight-blue fountain pen.

He glanced up again, looking out through the open doorway into the main part of the loft, but there was no movement out there. Martha and Alexis were on a spa day in a luxury hotel, and wouldn't be back until tomorrow. He'd arranged it all, so that there would be no interruptions.

The notebook's cover was soft and supple, often-opened. In one of the low cabinets behind him, protected by a combination lock, there were dozens more, all identical. In the next cabinet along, he had another stack of the same notebooks, blank and unused.

Each one had a dark red fabric bookmark sewn into the spine, and the notebook in front of him was laid open, with the bookmark drawn up, snaking across the polished wood of his desk. The left-hand page was blank, and was about a third of the way through this particular volume.

On the right-hand page, in the top corner, he'd written today's date.

He glanced at the clock, and nodded to himself. Beckett would be here in a couple of hours, as he'd also arranged. He had enough time. The ticking of the clock seemed unnaturally loud, and he thought it was appropriate.

He picked up the pen, and after only a brief pause, he began to write.

* * *

_Today, it all ends._

_A couple of hours from now, Kate will arrive. I asked her to come over so we could talk about something. She has the weekend off, but she agreed readily – and that's no surprise. Things have been changing, slowly but surely, for months now._

_She smiles more. She lets her fingers brush against mine when I hand her a cup of coffee in the morning. She spends more time here, with me, and with mother and Alexis. She lets me help her into her coat, or pull out a chair for her, and she stands closer to me than she used to._

_I've thought about what she said in the park – on the swings – so many times that it's taken on a mythical quality; every word laden with subtext and allegory. But really the message was simple: we may have a future together. In time, once she gets to where she needs to be. Then, we could have a chance. It's happening, too – a little more each month. It's coming closer._

_And today, it all ends._

_I've been writing these journal entries for almost seventeen years now. Since… Meredith, and afterwards. For this notebook, today is just another page; after yesterday, and before tomorrow. I wonder what I'll write, the next time I pick up this pen? I wonder if there will be a next time._

_I've been dreading this day. A couple of hours from now, she'll walk in here, and I'll take her coat. She'll smile at me, most likely, in that particular way that she smiles at me lately. Eyes wide open and sparkling, dark lashes against her cheek, head tilted slightly. She'll smile so that I can almost hear the words behind it. The words I've wanted to hear for so long._

_And then I'll bring her into this room, and I'll tell her that I've been looking into her mother's case, whilst keeping her away from it. I'll tell her about Smith, and about the phone calls, and the meetings in the parking garage. About the agreement, and about the danger to her life if she starts looking again. I'll tell her everything, and I'll give her all the information, and I'll beg her to set it aside, and live instead._

_I'll tell her that her mother wouldn't have wanted her to die for this. I'll tell her that there's another future for her, and that I can be part of it, if she'll let me._

_But it'll still all end._

_Because she'll feel shocked, and angry, and hurt, and betrayed. She'll be furious that I've taken hold of something so intensely personal to her – something that in many ways defines her, even though it shouldn't – and lied to her about it. She'll hate me for having leads that I haven't shown to her, even though they've dried up and there's nothing more to do. She'll be sick to her stomach about me bargaining for her life, without even involving her._

_Every moment we've had recently has been bringing us closer and closer to a point where the wall inside her would come down, and she'd let me step over the rubble and finally stand beside her in the way that I want to. But today, the wall that had been crumbling will start to be rebuilt. Bricks and mortar, reinforced with steel._

_The worst part for her will be the sense of personal betrayal. That will be the transgression she won't be able to let go. It's funny, in a sad sort of way, because I've known for a while now that she remembers everything I said to her that day, at Roy's funeral. I've allowed her to take the time she believes she needs. I haven't pushed. I've bit my tongue, and stilled my hand a thousand times._

_Even when she reaches out to me, and straightens a lapel, or picks a piece of lint from a sleeve. Even when her fingers brush against mine. Even when I lift her hair out from her coat, or lay a hand against her back. Even then, when it physically hurts to not be closer to her._

_Those moments are like air to breathe. I've cherished them, and replayed them, and hoped for them every morning. But they've also been tinged with sadness, because I know that each one brings the day just a little bit closer when I'll have to shatter what we have, before we've ever really had it._

_That day is today._

_What I did was necessary. It was necessary. I can never apologise for keeping her alive – how could I? I literally couldn't do anything else. I tried to take the bullet myself, and I failed, and I don't think I'll ever figure out how to forgive myself for that, but this time at least I could be her shield – quietly, silently, without her knowing. And now I'm going to tell her anyway, because I can't live with even a lie of omission any more. Some people can. But I can't._

_She'll hate me, and she'll maybe even tell me so. She'll feel betrayed, and alone. She'll storm from of this room, and across, and out. The door will slam. There will be silence._

_And that'll be it. I'll be here, still in the office. The murder board will be on, and I'll switch it off. I'll pour a large glass of the whisky I've already put in my desk drawer, and I'll drink, for as long as it takes._

_As afternoon becomes evening, and the darkness gathers, I'll drink to say goodbye to the life we might have had._

_It would be so easy to just stay quiet, but it would also be impossible. She has to know. It's the most important thing in her life, as she's regularly made clear. It's her white whale._

_So I'll tell her, and I'll give her the truth, and the few meagre pieces of new information I can provide. I'll give her those things, and pay for them with the future I dreamed of._

_I won't have the chance to actually say goodbye, so I suppose I should do it now._

_Goodbye, Detective._

_You're more than an inspiration. Your strength, your courage, and your sense of justice have taught me what it means to make a difference in the world, and to fight for our beliefs._

_Goodbye, Katherine Houghton Beckett._

_You're the most extraordinary woman I've ever known. You're still a wonderful mystery. You're fifty different women, and you're like no-one else. You've made me try to be a better man._

_Goodbye, Kate._

_I love you more today, on our last day, than I did on my own worst day below the blue sky, down on the green grass, with your life flowing away between my fingers. You're still alive, despite what they did, and I'd like to think that a small part of the reason for that is what I did._

_I loved you then. I told you because it was true, and I needed you to know._

_I love you now, as it all ends. I've written millions of words, but I never knew what those three meant before I met you._

_Tomorrow is dark. I have no idea where I'll be, or what I'll do. I wish I could turn the page and see. My future is blank._

_But I can promise you this:_

_I will love you… always._

* * *

The slam of the door still echoed around the loft, and was only slightly muted through in his office, where he still stood just in front of the desk.

The long shadows of the last hour or so of sunlight stretched across the floor. Silence descended, the only sound being the faint buzz of the electronic murder board as it bathed the room in blue light.

Castle slowly walked over to the device and switched it off without looking.

Her last words repeated over and over in his mind, as if they were still echoing around the room.

_We're through._

His eyes were unfocused. His pulse was surprisingly regular, given the brief but very heated exchange that had ended only moments ago. It already seemed like hours had passed.

He felt… what?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

_Like a blank page_, he thought.

He took an unsteady step, and then another, and a moment later he dropped heavily into his chair.

He pulled open a drawer, lifting out a bottle of whisky and a single crystal glass, and he poured himself a drink.


	2. Chapter 2

Beckett's keys clattered against her dining table, then her purse thumped down beside them and tipped over.

She was breathing rapidly, her hands clenched into fists at her side. Her gaze darted around her apartment, not really noticing anything until she caught sight of a framed photograph sitting on a low shelf in a corner of the kitchen area. It showed her and Castle sitting side by side on Lanie's couch, and Castle's eyes were closed as he laughed. Her head was turned towards him, and she was beaming.

Esposito had taken the photo during a games night a few months before, and then given her the framed copy as a taunting birthday gift. She had grudgingly thanked him, rolling her eyes at Castle's delight on seeing it, but she looked at it every time she was in her kitchen. She would even sometimes look across to it while she was watching TV. It never failed to raise that fluttering feeling in her chest. Until today.

"_Why?!_" she sobbed as she stalked over and grabbed the photo, then she impulsively hurled it across the room. It struck the far wall barely two feet from her TV, the frame cracked in two, the glass shattered, the pieces rained down on the floor.

Even from where she stood, she could see that a large piece of glass has pierced the digital print, shearing it almost in two.

She fell to her knees, and she wept.

When the tears finally subsided many minutes later, she pulled off her coat and let it drop to the floor unheeded.

_Not him_, she thought. _Not Castle_.

He had lied, for months. Kept her away from her mother's case. Hidden leads from her. And all that time, she'd been telling herself that she had to get better, not just for herself but for _him_. To find a way to deserve him!

"He betrayed me," she said, to the empty apartment, and her voice broke on the words.

_Did he?_ her mind whispered, but she ignored the question.

"I trusted him!"

_Did you, really?_

It wasn't his call to make. He had no right. He had looked her right in the face, for months, and kept this secret from her.

_Sounds familiar_.

She froze, her breath catching in her throat, but then she shook her head. It wasn't the same; not at all.

_It's exactly the same._

"How?"

_He lied to you because he loves you. And you lied to him because… he loves you._

She froze again, teetering on the edge of a realisation, but she shoved it away. A small, distant part of her wondered if Dr. Burke had an emergency contact number.

"No," she said, and this time the voice in her mind seemed to have no reply to make.

She dragged herself to her feet, and went back over to the dining table, picking up her purse and pulling out the manilla envelope he'd handed her.

_It's all here_, he'd said. _Everything. And it's up to you. But I'm begging you, Kate, lock it away and leave it alone – at least until we can find another way forward._

She'd grabbed the envelope from him, her eyes full of fire, and she'd told him that there was no _we_. He'd flinched as if she'd physically struck him in the chest, but he hadn't said anything.

And now she was here, alone again.

She opened the envelope and upended its contents onto the table. It contained many printed sheets of paper and various photographs; the entire contents of his electronic murder board. It was meticulously detailed, organised, and cross-references – just as she'd expect. He knew how to do research.

_And he knows his subject_, she thought, spitefully, letting the anger fuel her.

She began to page through it all, even though he'd given her an overview back at the loft, his expression blank and his voice just a monotone. He'd looked grey, and tired. Like a man just marking time.

She saw the section about the man called _Smith_, and again the rage rose up within her. Then she swept a page aside, and her mother's face stared up at her. It wasn't a crime scene photo; it was the file photo her father had provided. In it, Johanna Beckett was very much alive, and smiling her slightly mysterious, vaguely amused smile.

The tears came suddenly, one falling to blot against the glossy print, and she hurriedly wiped it away.

_This is what always happens_, she thought. People went away. Her mother. Her father, for a time. Royce. Montgomery. And now… him. This was why the wall existed. This was what it was _for_.

_He didn't go away_, her mind whispered. _You kept him at arm's length_.

"He lied to me!" she tried to shout, but her voice was wavering now. "He _betrayed_ me!"

_He saved you_.

She was wracked with sobs, her whole body shaking with them. The scar on her chest burned, and she clutched at it.

The face of her mother smiled up at her from the mess of papers on the table. Wise, kind eyes, from a photo she'd looked at ten thousand times. More tears fell, and this time she didn't wipe them away.

"Help me," she pleaded, feeling panic rising up in her chest. "I don't know what to _do_!"

_Don't you?_ her mother's voice asked, and she felt a chill run up her spine.

She tried to take a deep breath, her eyes closing, and she laid her palms on the table to steady herself.

_Breathe,_ she thought. It was what Burke would say. _First of all, just breathe._

Her fingers twitched as she willed herself to focus on that simple act. In for four, out for four. In, and out.

The glossy photo paper was tacky in places now, under her hand. It shifted as she adjusted her position, and then she felt something else.

Feathery. Irregular. A ragged edge.

Beckett opened her eyes in confusion, lifting her right hand to look. There was something else there; something… torn?

A different kind of paper, not laser printed. Just the barest sliver, sticking out from below her mother's photo. She took hold of it, and drew it out.

She saw a loop of dark ink, and then another, and then a screed of words. The edge of the sheet was rough and uneven, where it had been ripped in a single, swift movement from a book.

The writing was familiar. She'd seen it on a hundred sticky notes, and on the murder board at the precinct, and on birthday cards, and in dozens of other places. Her pulse quickened.

The densely-written page bore today's date in the top corner. She smoothed the slightly curled edge with her hand, and she began to read.

_Today, it all ends._


	3. Chapter 3

The city lived and breathed, under the night sky.

Rivers of headlights flowed ceaselessly along the streets below. Rain drummed softly against the cool pane of glass that separated him from the world outside.

Castle could see his own face reflected back at him. The office was in darkness, lit only by the glow of a few lamps in the main part of the loft's expansive entrance level.

There was a glass of whisky in his hand, but it was only his third of the evening, and he'd barely touched it. He was painfully sober, and he thought that it was perhaps better this way – so that he can fully absorb the ending that had taken place here today.

It's one that he never would have written, but it's at least _true_, in the cruel, unsatisfying, broken way that real life usually is.

Alexis had called about an hour earlier, just to check in. He'd put on a remarkable performance, if he did say so himself. Worthy of his mother, whom he also spoke to briefly. Neither one of them had suspected a thing.

_It's all in the rehearsal_, he thought.

If he was honest, he'd been in a detached state since she had stormed out earlier. Just… existing. Breathing, sometimes sitting and sometimes walking slowly and aimlessly around the darkened office, and trying very hard to think of nothing at all. It would fully hit him at some point in the next few hours. No sense in rushing it.

He took another sip of whisky, not even noticing the rich bitterness of it, or the burn as he swallowed it down.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been in this room now. The daylight had faded and then departed entirely. He hadn't eaten. He hadn't lifted the lid of the laptop, or gone into the living room. He hadn't so much as checked his phone, with the exception of the call from Alexis, with her distinctive ringtone.

He hadn't tried to call Beckett, or even text her. There were no more words. He'd spent them all already, and it had been as futile as he'd expected.

_We're through_.

He was suddenly very glad that his daughter wasn't here. He was glad, because he so desperately wanted to see her, and he knew that if she were nearby, he'd wrap his arms around her and press a kiss to the top of her head, and he'd hold on too tightly and for too long, and then she'd know that something was wrong.

She'd pull back and look up at him with those wise, worried eyes of hers, and she'd somehow know, without having to ask.

He reached out and rested his palm against the window frame, and tried to pretend that tomorrow wouldn't come. That the sun had set for the last time, and that he could at least have the comfort of standing in shadow indefinitely while he worked out what exactly to do with his life now.

The sound was so quiet that he first searched for its origin outside the window, looking down towards the street.

Almost thirty seconds passed before he heard it again, and the whisky glass almost slipped from his hand.

He turned, slowly, his pulse stuttering for a moment, then he set the glass down on the edge of his desk… and waited.

Another twenty seconds, and then there it was again. An efficient double-knock at the door. _Her_ knock.

A feeling of dread settled upon him, but his feet were in motion before he'd fully realised it.

The distance from the window in his office to the front door of the loft was a thousand miles long. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, as if he were underwater. The loft was a dark cavern, full of shadows, with only a handful of isolated pockets of soft light.

His mind wasn't working properly, and he could recognise the leading edges of numbness setting in. He knew that it was a defence mechanism.

He reached the door. After only a moment's hesitation, he opened it.

* * *

Beckett had been about to dig through her purse for the key he'd given her, when she heard the handle turning. Her pulse kicked up several notches, and she momentarily felt sick to her stomach.

The door swung open, and he stood there, but his face was entirely in shadow. The loft behind him was dark, with only a few lamps visible, doing almost nothing to light the vast area.

After the bright light of the building's entrance and elevator, she couldn't even make out his eyes in the darkness. Before she could speak, he turned and walked slowly back into the gloom, vanishing after a few steps, and leaving the door open. She heard his footsteps receding.

She stepped inside after a long moment, and closed the door behind her, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Her right hand was in her coat pocket, clutching the torn-out page of his journal. She'd read it many times during the past few hours.

"Castle?" she asked, peering uncertainly into the darkened loft.

She was answered by the faint clink of glass, over in the direction of his office. Her eyes had begun to acclimatise to the reduced light now, and she could make out the black void of the open doorway leading from the main area to the place where he wrote.

She crossed to the middle of the partition wall, and then stepped through. There was enough light coming in from the window to make out his silhouette. He was standing at the side of his large desk, just placing a decanter of whisky back down.

"Drink?" he asked quietly, and she shivered. His voice was flat and without any of the life and humour and vibrance that usually characterised him.

_Because for him, I walked out twice today – not once_.

"Thanks," she said, and he hesitated for a moment before reaching into a drawer and taking out another crystal glass, then pouring a generous amount of the amber liquid into it.

"It's… dark in here," she said, as he walked silently towards her and then offered her the glass, which she took carefully.

He turned and walked back to the desk without a word, but then he switched on one of the small lamps on the unit behind it. The normally cosy light seemed harsh in comparison to the darkness it replaced, and she blinked several times.

Castle took a large sip from his own glass, and then looked at her impassively.

Her eyes flicked over towards the darkened flatscreen monitor, and her stomach clenched, but then she ran her fingers over the sheet of notepaper in her pocket, and sighed. She returned her attention to him, just in time to see his gaze drop again. He'd clearly noticed her looking at the monitor.

"Why are you here, Kate?" he asked suddenly, still not meeting her eyes. His voice was still quiet, and didn't carry far. Combined with the low lighting, it would have been intimate, except for the weary emptiness of his tone.

"I… I came to say…" she began, but then she tailed off. So many conflicting emotions ran through her, and when she closed her eyes she could feel the anger rising up again. She pushed it away, instead looking at him once more and focusing on what she came here for.

She pulled the sheet of notepaper from her pocket, seeing his eyes flick down towards it, and then the flash of recognition. His eyes slid shut, and his shoulders seemed to sag.

_He thinks I came to return it_, she realised, feeling a surge of pity and empathy.

"I read this," she said quickly, taking a half step forward. He didn't look up, so instead she looked down at the densely-written page, where he'd poured out his heart in a lament for the loss of something she'd never allowed him to have.

As her eyes scanned over the words, her vision blurred for what seemed like the hundredth time today.

"God, Castle, I… I'm _sorry_."

She looked up at him again, and saw that he was looking at her now, uncertainty written in his expression alongside confusion. She knew that he had been so _sure_ when he wrote this entry in a journal she'd never even know about. And for the most part, he'd been right, too – eerily so.

_Because he knows me. He knows me better than anyone ever has._

There was almost no part of his written confession that wasn't heartbreaking.

How he'd cherished every small gesture she'd made, or allowed him to make.

How he'd long been waiting for the annihilation of what he'd hoped they could have.

How it had killed him, little by little, to be near her but never close enough.

How he felt responsible for not getting between her and the bullet.

How he still loved her, more than ever, even as he sacrificed his connection to her.

A tear rolled down her cheek, and she saw his brow furrow as his eyes tracked it.

When he had told her his secret earlier that day, his tone was that of a mourner, but he hadn't wavered. He stood tall, and his voice was quiet and steady. He had simply given her everything, with no expectation in return.

_Like always_, she thought.

"Castle, I am _so_ sorry," she whispered, holding the torn sheet up as if it explained everything.

He set his glass down on the table. His expression was blank, and she knew that he was struggling to reconcile her words with the tragic story he'd already written for them.

She hurried onwards, before he could think too much.

"I… you were right, about me," she said. "I was so angry – you just… it took me totally by surprise. I'm still angry, but… I know why you did it. I know what you were trying to do."

His head tilted almost imperceptibly, as he considered her words. He opened his mouth and she held her breath for a moment, but he didn't speak.

She took another step towards him.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Most of all I'm angry with myself, because I did something far worse."

His brow creased again, his eyes just black pools in the low light. She took another step, and now she was standing right in front of him. She set the sheet of paper gently down on the desk surface, only now noticing the black notebook sitting nearby.

"You were right, you know," she said, her heart beating more rapidly in her chest. "I do remember."

Her gaze slid from the notebook to his hand resting on the desk's edge, and then to his forearm. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and she saw gooseflesh break out all along his arm.

_The things I've done to you_, she thought desperately, forcing herself to look up at him again. His head was bowed, his eyes locked on a nearby patch of the floor.

She lifted her hand and laid her palm against his cheek, and he flinched, startled, but she didn't pull away, instead running her thumb across his cheekbone soothingly.

"You had no right to keep this from me, Rick," she said softly, "but I know why you did. I know why… you had to."

His eyes were locked on hers now, and she saw him swallow, then give the barest nod. She took a breath, then licked her lips, seeing his gaze flick down momentarily before meeting hers once more. She held his gaze for long moments, until a little of the tension left his frame.

"But I had no right to make you wait, either," she said quietly, and his left eyebrow twitched.

"Wait?" he asked, his voice a dry rasp, barely audible.

Her other hand came up to rest on his shoulder.

"To hear me say it back," she said.

There was utter stillness and silence. A second. Another. Five. Ten.

His jaw worked, and she saw confusion and restraint and despair and hope all warring for dominance in his eyes. She brushed her thumb across his cheek again, feeling the stubble that had grown there.

_We've waited long enough_, she thought.

"I love you too," she whispered, her eyes large and liquid, holding his gaze and willing him to see the truth of it.

Another brief moment of stillness, and then his control, held onto at such cost for so long, finally evaporated. There was a sound from the back of his throat, and it pierced her heart, drawing more tears immediately.

His head fell slowly forward, eyes closed, and his forehead came to rest against hers. A moment later, she felt a teardrop strike the bridge of her nose, and her other hand flew from his shoulder to cup the other side of his face.

"No more secrets," she pleaded, as two sets of tears fell. She felt the barest nod against her brow, and then she gently lifted her head away to look at him.

His eyelids slid slowly open, and there were bright tracks down his own cheeks, matching hers, but his eyes were blue again.

"No more secrets," he said.

She searched inside herself one last time, but where a wall had stood, there was now only free space, and air, and a lightness she could barely remember.

"And no more waiting," she replied.

His hands came up, tentatively at first, and settled on her hips. For the first time in what seemed like forever, she smiled.

Then she closed the final breath of distance between them, and pressed her lips to his.


End file.
